Out the front door,

turn right

pass through the ruined gate
between the blooming hawthorns and
thistle banks,
and the curling track
transports you across a meadow.

This track,
a metal detector once told me
while patrolling the meadow,
his eyes on me
his ears on history,
this track is ancient.

They likely pushed the bloody henge up this track
he said, his white-haired head arcing back a thousand years
to the high plain, the west country, the sea.